


black feathers

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 22:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13691070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “The thoughts you are thinking are foolish ones, you would be clever to wipe them clean of your mind.”





	black feathers

**Author's Note:**

> In which Ikol watches and helps Loki fall in love.

…

Young Loki leans against the windowsill, white hood pulled up hiding his tousled ebony locks, the childhood roundness of his chin nestled deep within the crook of a knobby elbow. Ikol lands, feathers ruffle, straighten as he carefully positions his talon upon Loki’s thin shoulders, wary of causing him harm. Although he can see that Loki is unwillingly, unconsciously torturing himself. But who is Ikol to judge for he had burned the same way.

“The thoughts you are thinking are foolish ones, you would be clever to wipe them clean of your mind.”

He turns, brows furrowed, two lines of ink against his ivory skin.

“And how do you know the thoughts I think? I believed you a mischief make not a mind read.”

Ikol follows the green of his gaze, with the keen eyes of a bird, his vision perceptive and all seeing. Thor fights in the courtyard sparring with Sif, the large tanned muscles of his arms ripple, gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. Thor brings down his sword and she quickly parries, the clang of metal rings loud, a painful song.

“The former would be true, the latter false. You forget I was once you and the unforgiving thoughts that travel through your mind were once my own.”

Suddenly, quicker that lightening, Thor grabs Sif, laughter an easy thing on his lips, his hand a sharp contrast against the paleness of her cheek. Their lips meet and Ikol looks bitterly away, the contract of his heart reviled. He feels it radiate off Loki’s flesh, cloning his emotions, the grief and sorrow of unrequited love.

 Ikol can not hep but think, Loki is too young to feel this to suffer so. However, he supposed his years on Loki were not many, when he discovered the torment of yearning, the passion of flesh, Thor and him learning each other’s bodies. Little more than youth with inquisitive hands, hot blood newly found as their breaths caught. They became whispers of the night, the quiet sigh of flesh in the surrounding blackness, gradually fading. Their times together filtered down to nothing, like fragile sand slithering through weak fingers, until only the sharp sickles of ice emptiness remained cradled within his palm. Thor seldom sought Ikol’s warmth and when he did he stunk of ale and tasted of mead. They used one another, and Thor left shortly afterwards and Ikol let him, knowing in the morning he would not remember. Ikol needed the small contact, a moment of softness no matter the painful thorn it grew with in him, for if bruises were all Thor gave him, they would be a cherished thing. And Ikol would gladly torture, torment in flames for it. Perhaps that’s when it happened, the bitter seed of infatuation blossomed, rooted deep within his heart, becoming acrid madness.

“Ikol,” Loki speaks, disintegrating his steam of mind. Attention focusing and forcing him back into the frigid harshness of reality. The normal bright emerald of Loki’s eyes, a soft mournful moss.

Ikol did not perish for this, risk all, and die for this, to see him suffer as he had.

“Let us take a walk,” Loki says, the word perhaps to less foolish ears, sound joyful but within them Ikol hears thickness, heaviness, the weight of a stone on his little tongue.

Ikol answers quickly, the lash and whip of his beak, loathing the dryness of his throat, “Let us.”

Again, he cannot help but think, he is too young.

…

The density of a sea, the air thick and chocking with the heaviness of it. Ikol struggles to breath, the aroma of roses and cinnamon, the scent of seiðr, suffocating and overwhelming. He’s drowning in it.

Loki walks ahead, ebony hair bobbing with each step, his small fingers reaching out to pluck red leaves from wiry branches with a quick snap. Ikol flies behind him, sinews fiery with effort, wind rushing dry and ruthless against his wings. Heartbeat rapid and panicked a swift desperate thing, with a swoop he lands on Loki’s shoulders, feathered head cocking to the side.

“We must leave,” Urgently his eyes flash, scanning the woods as the land pulses as steady hissing rhythm. The vestiges of a spell, runes of seiðr engraved within the soil long ago, since the birth of Midgard, waiting to be activated by someone with the correct blood.

“You fidget like a bee, such nerves are strange for you, Ikol.”

“This wood is filled with dangerous seiðr and I cannot name the trouble it will bring but I hear its threatening sire.”

Lips pursued and expression puzzled, Loki turned to face him, his small boot covered foot lifts, pressing down upon a rock, his mouth opened to speak, his words never having the chance to leave.

It is enough, seiðr is born, an unwanted child.

Enchantment hums, the air wavers, turning cold before the temperature increases boiling.

Frantically Ikol acts, digging knife like talons within the cords of Loki’s neck, flesh sliding beneath his frenzied claws, tossing Loki to the ground. He crashes, the gentle curve of his arched spine hits the ground with a dull thud. Growing from the soil emerges a terrible vine, tearing apart the earth. Purple flames with keen ice edges explode at Ikol’s back, burning, the scent of searing feathers, sickening. Fear spreads through Loki’s eyes with the fury of a plague.

Ikol’s world bleeds black.

…

Pants emerge, went and gurgling, like the bubbling of a stream. Ikol’s chest seaming sewn shut, tight and forceful, ribs stabbing empty lungs.

“Ikol,” through a fog, the haze of a pained mind he hears Loki, voice burdened with saccharine panic, laced and threaded like a woven lengthy tapestry.

His fingers lightly shove, sharking Ikol’s flesh as colors spark and rainbows swirl, expanding and fluttering away like dusts of snow, Ikol’s vision clearing.

Loki kneels before him, framed by looming trees and lifting smoke. “You should not move.” The undertone of his voice a strange promise one Ikol cannot name.

Discarding his orders, Ikol shifts his weight, on an elbow, the heel of his hands pushing firmly against the soil for support. Hands? Cagily he lifts them, scrutinizing the length of ten digits and finger nails painted black. Bile rises, a sour bloom, the bitter petals of it blossoming across Ikol’s tongue. His dread palatable, his alarmed stare traveling over his nude flesh and lean legs. His muscles shamefully weak and disused, shudder, tremble like a leaf. He collapses, strength giving way, a broken useless thing.

Loki scurries, like a mouse, supporting and lifting Ikol against his chest, thin arms beneath his.

“Did you plan this?” Loki asks, voice ringing loudly of wariness and uncertainty, a wise thing to be.

Ikol’s head tilts, pillowed against Loki’s collarbone, “No I did not, although I cannot blame you for your lack of faith.”

“Not a lack of faith, I do not like being an unaware piece in the game of plans you play.”

They remain silent, awkward, an excruciating cadence.

“Someone is coming,” Loud footfall echoes in the distance, reverberating, stabbing to the center of his bones.

Loki’s eyes search Ikol’s for guidance or help, he has little to offer.

“I cannot lift or hide you.”

“Their rage will be directed at me, you have nothing to fear.”

A crease forms, marring the flawless surface of Loki’s brow, “Yet I do fear, for you are me, and I do not want your harmed.”

The footsteps grow, increasing and approaching, a march before war. For this is the greatest war of all, one with no chance of victory, one with only the greatest offerings of loss.

The hair at Ikol’s nape rises, a warning, the sign of a coming storm. Loki stiffens at his back, small muscles turning to stone.

Footsteps, halt, their carrier admitting a hiss, threatening like an irate lion.

“Loki!” Thor charges, pouncing, a blaze of tan flesh and crimson cape. His nose red with rage, a vein throbbing steadily along his temple.

Ikol’s blood surges, throat tightening to the point of a pin. An annoyance, a keen blade like feeling slicing open his chest, he bleeds it, this peculiar mixture of loathing and something unnamable when Thor is around. His thick fingers span Ikol’s thin neck, grip a harsh vise as Thor flings him to the ground a useless toy, limbs twirling like a ragdoll.

Ikol hits the ground with great force, knocking air from his lungs, his eyes snapping as his head cracks, humming shrieks echoing in the tender inside of his ears. Thor is upon him, a predator seeking prey, lips pulled back baring teeth.

“You should keep calling me Ikol, this whole situation has the means to become terribly confusing,” Ikol sneers, cackles, the crackles of dying flame.

Fingers find his throat again, squeezing, a hard knee to his chest. Oh, how Ikol missed this. The motivation behind past mischief so very apparent, he lied, he schemed, just to feel Thor, the friction of angered flesh and the way his blue eyes flared hot like the summer sky. Ikol needed Thor, for he was and is the very reason for his every breath.  The reason for the blood that pools within his veins, torrid and thick.

Needle points spark before his eyes, white dots as Thor’s fingers tighten, the lack of oxygen causing his lungs to starve.

Ikol writhes, thrashing beneath him, head dizzy and swimming as his lips curl, searching for the kindness of air. If Thor wrought Ikol’s death, stole his life, then he would gladly fade away, dissolve into the earth for his callouses against Ikol’s skin were a great pleasure, haunting his every waking moment—madness.

“Stop! Stop this! You will kill him.”

Through the hazy mist of an air deprived mind, Ikol sees Loki dash, a streak of black against the sepia toned forest, tiny hand upon the bulk of Thor’s arm, tugging. The weight of Ikol’s throat lessens, lifts as air rushing cool and tantalizing feeds his starved lungs, palatable and chilling like the spring breeze. Ikol gasps, muscles going slack and collapsing to the earth, green blades of grass slicing bloodied cuts on the tender skin of his thighs.

Loki kneels, disquiet painted across his pale face as he guides Ikol’s head on his lap to rest, reluctantly he lets himself be led. Exhausted and tired, disgustingly so.

“What schemes are you plotting, sly one?” Thor growls, the sound of thunder shocking the sky.

Black glove covered fingers, sweep across his forehead, the light touch of a bird’s velvet feathers

Ikol’s temple throbs, a steady unforgiving drum beat, “Unfortunately, I have no schemes left in my empty soul.”

Thor snorts and Ikol prickles.

“I lost faith in you words long ago, lies always so easy on your tongue. What seiðr did you concoct?”

Anger burns Ikol, a hearth scorching his blood. Something Thor always wrought, heat and rage, twisting the center of his guts, “My seiðr departed long ago.”

“Seiðr and lies were always your constant companion. I find it hard to believe you would allow them to leave your side.”

It’s a tug, a snake slithering between his thin ribs, weaving a vicious pattern. Lies, mischief, seiðr, things he held onto so tightly. For Thor was he only one who ever loved him and then even he stopped.

“The seiðr was not mine, an enchantment was placed on this land long ago.”

“You expect me to believe this?”

Ikol sighs, nose against the softness of Loki’s belly, the green fabric of his tunic fluttering lightly. “I expect no one to believe the words that leave my lips.”

“How do I know you did not return to pollute his mind?”

Ikol hisses at Thor’s verbal slap, “I didn’t not risk my life to save him, only to later destroy my good work.”

Loki’s small hand clenches at his side, little fingers curving in and forming a fist, a curve of hardly suppressed irritation. The tip of his snub nose, flourished a stunning pink, he pipes, “I do not like being spoke about, spoken over, like an object of the scenery.”

Ikol pushes up, fingers digging into the moist yielding soil, Ikol’s head against the knobby curve of Loki’s shoulder, the small move making his vision swim.

“We have to sneak you into Asgard, you need to rest,” Loki says.

“Help me stand,” Ikol commands with a viperous murmur.

“I don’t not think that wise,” Loki whisper, green eyes wide.

Thor bends, leaning over them, blonde locks brushing—a ghostly tickle—over Ikol’s temple, causing his breath to cat and stomach muscles to harden and clench with despised and familiar anticipation.

“Cover yourself,” Thor growls, as he tears his red cape away, thread cracking like splintered bones. He drops the fabric across Ikol’s lap, a pool of blood against Ikol’s white skin. The length of his bony fingers work and tangle the cape, tying a knot so the crimson drapes like a clock.

The callous of Thor’s palms press flat against Ikol’s back, branding as another hand reaches beneath the sensitive curve of his knee, lifting, as if Ikol is weightless—nothing. The thud of flesh against flesh as he cradles Ikol in his big arms.  The memory or what his warmth meant, the poison of Thor and Ikol.

“What do you think you are doing,” Ikol barks.

“You quiver like a babe, it is obvious your muscles have yet to recover.”

Self-loathing swarms like a hoard of locust, his limitations unwanted and abhorrent.

Loki stands, feet bending and toes tipped like the edge of a sword, cutting through the yielding air as he skips to Thor’s side, tugging a his black tunic, “We must keep Ikol hidden, bring him to my chambers.”

Fondness, a promise in Thor’s blue eyes, crinkles mapped around his brow as he looks down at Loki—at least for young Loki there is some hope.

“Go ahead to your chamber, I will follow in a minute.”

Loki nodes, bouncing off an excited little rabbit fading from view.

Leaving Ikol alone with the cause of so many past mistakes.

Tan fingers draw up the red cape, making a hood, Thor’s fingertips skim Ikol’s stark cheek bone, hiding his inky tresses, the comforting gentleness of his touch a foreign thing.

“We cannot have anyone recognize you.”

The circle of his arms, the embrace of memories, Ikol expects to feel an eerie bubble of warmth but he remains numb, empty as Thor carries him into Asgard.

…

Ikol sits on the edge of the bed, vision a fine blurred line, obscured by the inky spike of his lashes. With hooded eyes he watches Thor riffle through his wardrobe pulling out tunics, stocking and cloaks, green fabric flashes, pooling like leaves on the golden tiles.

Speedily, Ikol stands, tile cool against his bare toes, a shiver of uncertainty traveling up his spine. He kneels, fingers grasping the green cloak, his green cloak, the cloth littered with tears and holes, “What is this?” He rasps, throat tight, hating the feelings that erupt.

“It is—”

Ikol’s breaths come in heavy pants, jagged, causing his lungs to ache with the weight of them.

“I know what it is, I am asking why?” He slams his fist against the floor, a welcomed pain rising from his knuckles, the collision of flesh against marble echoes, nauseating in the silence.

“I searched the rubble of your chambers after Asgard’s siege—after your supposed death—and I saw this, something urged me to take it.”

Ikol tries to quell it, ignore it and lie, tell himself he can no longer feel. But it coils—heat—his ribs too small and his lungs pressing against them, body a prison.

“It is an odd thing, this sentiment,” He whispers, sharp and threatening in the lull that enveloped them.

Their eyes clash as Thor comes to Ikol’s side, sitting on his heels, drawing green fabric from his hands, their knuckles brushing.

“And you feel this sentiment now?”

“I am unsure of what I feel. My emotions have been lost—confused—for such a long while, I cannot discern them, they are a woven blanket of thoughts.”

Thor leans close and Loki can smell him, sweat, daylight and soil. So close he hears the rapid hum of his pulse. Ikol is reminded of what they used to be, of what he once was before he let darkness swallow him, grasp him with its terrible claws. Before Thor discovered the softness of a woman’s flesh, how they pleased him far more than Ikol ever could. For the women had something he could not give, something guarded.

Ikol, remembers, the way they played together, young boys causing trouble, how different he was when Óðinn stole him from his homeland—a theft he himself had caused. The way Thor took him under his winds, easily accepting while others remained aloof. The first time Thor kissed him, within their shared room, the song of the night crickets around them, their teen years just reached. How Óðinn strung him up, a snake dripping vile venom on his face, Thor’s cheeks colored with rage. He had lied telling Thor it was Jötnar who harmed him. When suddenly like a rift in the land they grew apart, how slowly his lies changed into something vicious, as vile as the venom that burned his flesh. How jealousy and sorrow, transformed him into a monster.

“Lo—Ikol.”

The rough skin of Thor’s palm presses against the curve of Ikol’s back, Ikol biting his lips to suppress a moan. It had been too long, since he had lain with him.

“Yes?”

The thunder of his voice lowers, the undertone a caress.

“Do you hold regrets for you past actions?”

Ikol cocks his head, long tresses cascade over his shoulder, streak of black paint across the canvas of pale flesh.

“I am a creature of strange things, I hold both regrets and pride for what I have done.”

The corners of his lips tug, s frown forms, “And are you sorry?”

“I am sorry for everything that involves us,  _brother_.”

They both stiffen at the last word, the air thick and crushing.

“Should I trust you?”

Blunt finger tips dig into Ikol’s arm a pain bone deep.

“I do not even trust myself.” He chokes, a truth, perhaps the most honest piece of him, for even he was aware of beast that hides beneath the surface.

It happens, before he has a chance to react, Thor draws him to his chest, arms a circle of reassurance—an embrace. The last time he held Ikol in comfort, they were children. When he woke at night plagued with terrors, dreams of Laufey's cruel words and livid fist. Ikol despises it, the way his muscles shake, the burning of his eyes, the damping of lashes, the distress, grief and anguish.

Ikol acts wanting to change how he melts into Thor, wanting to erase vulnerability, despising the closeness, the emotions Thor  wrought within him. His lips crush against Thor’s mouth open, teeth touch, tongues tangle. He can handle this, bear it. He needa to remember what they are, their truths, he needs to remind himself, what he is. Remind himself of the mead on Thor’s tongue and the disregard, remind himself that he is nothing.

Their hips press, Thor’s hands on his shoulder as Thor’s flesh slams, reverberates through the chamber as he hits the ground and Ikol straddles him, bucking and moaning. Their tongues meeting, mating. Their hands searching and rediscovering old forgotten secrets. Hot breaths, wet gasp, they are whispers. Thor shifts their positions, rolling Loki beneath him before finding his mouth again. Frantically he bites his lip, Thor’s big hands holding Ikol’s lean lush hips harshly, freezing his movements and slowing his writhes. Thor’s tongue free of the terrible taste of mead, cherishing and promising. Ikol uncomfortable, with the twist within his chest, the intimacy of the sensation—a confusing thing.

Ikol breaks away from his lips, sighing into him, “I need you, now.”

_‘Remind me why I hate you!_ _Take me like you used to!’_

Yet Thor’s touch remains tender—gentle and almost kind. And Ikol is undone, unsure and shamefully frightened. Thor positions him carefully on the floor cold against his bare bottom, the red fabric of his cape beneath him, the blood of a sacrifice, black hair fanned out like a storm cloud.

Ikol closes my eyes, unable to tolerate his gaze,

Thor takes him, and this is what they are. Uncertain and unknown. The winter wind and the summer sun, tears and bruises, a tug and a pull. They battle and in the fight for dominance Ikol allows himself to lose, Ikol submits to him. For they are every lie and every truth.

…

Ikol wakes, disoriented, drowsy eyes taking a moment to focus. He’s in Thor’s bed, plush fur and blankets tangled around his lean legs. Thor sleeps at his side, wide back facing him. Ikol rises, carefully to keep movements hush.

At the edge of the bed he sees them, a tunic and stockings and cloak folded the fabric rough and warn, the colors a faded brown. Thor knows him so well, that he cannot and will not stay.

He dresses, pulling the tunic over his head, the top large and billowy. He tugs the laces of the stockings, struggling to get them to fit his lithe waist. His fingers work, clasping the cloak around his throat, hiding his hair beneath a fur lined hood. He is surrounded and overwhelmed by the feel of Thor, the aroma of his skin.

Cautiously, Ikol climbs onto the bed, mattress giving way beneath weight, he kisses the sharp broad blade of Thor’s shoulder, tasting salt.

Ikol flees, fearing the tug and urge to stay. He leaves, without looking back.

…

Loki opens the door before Ikol enters, purple smudges beneath his eyes.

“Do not tell me you have been waiting this entire time?”

His small hand reaches to rub tired eyes, “I have. Thor came and told me you had fallen asleep, but still I worried.”

Ikol bends, tapping Loki’s chin and brushing back his tousled locks, “Let us go in, and you rest.”

They walk into the small room, the wet smell of night air and rain, the smoke of a candle's flame dense and grey. The blaze causing walls to glow an array of orange, yellows, reds, and gold, the fleeting memories of childhood and fall. Loki climbs, settling, burrowing deep within the furs and blankets of his small pallet.

“Will you not sleep?” Loki asks, buried beneath covers, the tip of his head peeking out, small flecks of black hair sticking up in disarray.

“I am not tired,” Ikol smiles falsely, truth unseen and untold, as he sits on the edge of the window, watching as Loki’s breathing slows, shoulders relax with slumber. Exhaustion, takes every nerve and every inch of Ikol’s soul.

Soon, he will be lost, willingly, and hopefully, forever.

…

Ikol knew not when sleep came, yet it did, with great force and vigor. Nightmares following with darkness and sharp vicious claws, raking talons across my mind, voices hissing, growling, singing of mischief and death. Ikol wakes, screaming, back stiff, the windowsill cutting into tender sinews. Cold sweat covering every inch of his skin, there is no escape and so he plans one.

…

Ikol pulls the cloak, tighter, taut across his frame, hiding any trace of who he is or had ever been. Loki sits head upon knobby knees, wind rustling ebony locks. The sun beaming down, a warm caress.

Ikol walks kneeling at his side, green grass waving with the light breeze, “I cannot stay like this.”

Loki does not meet his eyes, “I know.”

“Any seiðr I ever had is lost, at least for me. But you, you have all the power I once held.”

He turns, sharply, green eyes wide with wonder and surprise, “You said power is dangerous, so I would have little.”

Ikol bites his lip, tasting sweet metallic blood and the strangeness of delight.

“I lied; you must always remember it is what I do.”

“And how do I know you lie not know?”

Puzzling, the swell of guilt, pushing hard against Ikol’s ribs, “You do not. But  _I_ need to be able to trust you.”

Loki jumps, an eager grasshopper, “You can.”

“Every spell I once knew, I must teach you, so you can change me once again into Ikol the magpie.”

Serious concern and the bright light of intelligence spreads across Loki’s face, “You told me not to trust you? Can I trust you with this?”

Ikol’s blood freezes ice cold and numb as harsh and unforgiving as the winter of his homeland. He lies, “Yes.”

…

Ikol speaks it, the soft lyrical chime, chants of wonder, words of seiðr, and Loki listens with eager ears, his curious mind avidly hearing.  Ikol acts it the motions, the twirl and twist of spell casting fingers and Loki copies. Ikol teaches him for Loki is Ikol, his student and tool.

..

Again at night they haunt Ikol, the swirl of stars, the siren of darkness, cackles and screeching like glass against glass. Urging and pleading, ' _Let them all see who you are! That Loki the trickster has returned! Let them remember the havoc you sow—your terrible song of mischief.'_

Ikol wakes once again panicked palms press against his eyes until they ache and colors spark, blinding. He covers his ears, buries his face against knees, the voice remains.

…

Screams echo, cries of terror, cracking and shattering. Ikol realizes they are not his own. Standing, Ikol stumbles forward, through the blackness of night, Ikol finds him. Loki’s body convulsing, furs and tunic tangled around thin legs. Fearfully, Ikol shakes him, grasping the small span of bony shoulders, “Loki, you must wake up!”

Tears, damp on Loki’s cheeks cling to his lashes, falling like malicious rain, glistening on ashen skin, illuminated like diamonds by the pallor light of a candle.

Terrified that darkness would claim Loki as it had Ikol, Ikol strikes slapping his cheek. His eyes shoot open, two dots of white gaze back at Ikol.

“Are you well?” He tries to wrench from Ikol’s grasp. Ikol tightens his hold.

“It was only a dream.”

Dreams were never just a dream for the people of Asgard, visions of the night were omens.

Emotions ruling, Ikol screams, “WHAT DID YOU DREAM OF?!”

Loki pulls away, furiously wiping tears from his eyes as he rearranges blankets and furs.

“I do not know! Of darkness and horrible thing and a frost giant with an angry fist.” Would it never leave them? These memories Ikol prayed they would leave Loki, and although he did not remember most during his wake others plagued him at night. He thought them nightmares, Ikol knew them as truths and the terrors of their past. Ikol pulls Loki to him, cradling him like a small bird, holding the base of his skull. Loki’s small fingers thread through his tunic, tears soaking the fabric as tremors steal Loki’s frame.

This would never leave them.

…

The raps of a knock echo shattering the silence. The moon wavers in, the pale flesh of Loki’s face dyed opal. The skin beneath his eyes swollen red. Loki’s breaths small broken hiccups. Ikol removes his hand from his shoulder, untangling Loki’s sleeping body from his.

Standing on frail legs Ikol drapes the cloak around my lithe frame, tucking stray ebony locks beneath the hood. Ikol answers the door, knowing who stands behind, the arrogance, demanding impatience of the taps.

“I need to speak with you, L—Ikol,” A murmur, the rumble of a thunder long past.

“Come then.”

Ikol opens the door, leading Thor into the hallway. The walk side by side, with lowered lids Ikol watches the ripple of muscles beneath Thor’s tunic, the broad span of his shoulder, heat pooling in his stomach—the familiar roll of flames licking up his flesh.

Halting, Ikol wrenches Thor’s arm. They are alone in a forgotten corridor, one only few know of.

“Words are not your strong suit,” Ikol sighs and purrs, a chorus of mischief.

Ikol exhales, breathing against Thor’s throat, smelling sweat, slumber, and sun. Ikol guides Thor’s mouth to his, tongue tracing, trailing, memorizing the feel of him—memorizing everything about him. His laugh, the red tint that mars his face when he is angered.

 Thor slams him against the wall, harsh stone of it rasping and cutting. Ikol winds legs around Thor’s hips, fingers carding through his blonde tresses, back arching, the curve of a bow. Thor plays him better than any instrument for they are a tortured song. His kiss desperate. Ikol tastes it, his every touch and past kindness. The way Thor held him a small frightened boy, the first time Thor’s lips touched his, the curious fear, the shame of it. The transformation of a monster—the birth of mischief.

They rock against each other, Panting, Humming. Ikol needs him—this—one last time, for madness urges and he listens for he is its willing servant. Thin fingers move an alluring twitch unlacing the ties of Thor’s trousers dipping below the hem to feel him. With a twist he removes Ikol’s hand, pinning his wrist above his head holding him captive. Ikol submits, an enthusiastic prisoner. Keeping one hand on his wrist, Thor’s tan digits skim down the line of Ikol’s spine, counting ever knob, tugging down his trouser, pushing up his cloak fabric hissing with a whisper.

Thor turns Ikol, quickly, piercingly, Ikol’s forehead scrapping stones, his breaths catching as Thor’s finger tips dig into Ikol’s hips.

“THOR!”

The haze of passion, vision red, clears with the claws of reality and awareness.

Thor drops Ikol like a play thing, he slides to the floor, knees clinking. Ikol looks away ordering his clothes. He knew she would come, she would walk this corridor as she did every night one of the few still aware of its existences. Still Ikol led Thor here, lit his passion for he wanted her to see, know the scorn he felt, he let mischief rule for lies were a fate that held him tight and he could not escape, a willing tool of havoc.

“Sif!”

Hiding deeper within billows of fabric, Ikol listens with keen ears to her angered gasp and his panicked retorts.

“I will not ask what this is for it is obvious. Whose flesh do you seek to state the heat of your blood?”

“Merely a palace whore!” _A whore._ Ikol’s nails dig into his palms marring and painting red crescent shaped moons.

“How reassuring! Then I will leave, allow you to finish your business. Do not seek me out later, my door will be locked.”

The click of her boots, reverberate and fade until only emptiness remains. Thor grabs, slamming Ikol against the floor, his head snapping as his world explodes in white.

“You planned this!”

Ikol sneers, a splintered grin cracking his mask, fury flooding his veins, “A bit of fun.”

Thor’s fist raises, posed to strike.

“Hit me, it would be the greatest pleasure,” Ikol jeers and spits vicious venom.

“If it would please you in anyway, then I dare not!” He growls smashing Ikol against the tile, face above red and livid.

“You cared about my pleasure only a moment ago.”

“Are you so sure of yourself?! Perhaps it was my own release I sought, not caring who it was with!”

Furious, Ikol lashes out racking nails down Thor’s face, watching as fine lines of crimson swell, red droplets of rubies, precious blood welling to the surface of skin.

Then does Thor act, striking his face, knuckles hitting his jaw. Ikol’s head throbbing with a rhythm of pain, he cries out with pleasure for the pain of the body is far kinder than that of the soul. Thor drops him, breaths ragged.

Dully he stares at the ceiling listening the echo of his footsteps until he is gone and Ikol is alone with a monster.

…

They draw a circle of runes within the soil, Ikol sitting at the center nodding to Loki.

“Are you sure of this?” Loki asks, green eyes wary.

“Yes.”

For a moment he hesitates mouth opening to speak the chants of seiðr Ikol taught but they both freeze upon hearing Thor's voice, “Ikol.”

Ikol looks up, eyes void of emotion, “Leave us for a moment, Loki.”

Cautiously, Loki sends a look of implore to Thor before tentatively leaving.

“I am sure you have words to speak, so speak them quick,” Ikol says.

“I have left Sif.”

It is not what he thought Thor would say. His head snaps up quickly, meeting the blue of his eyes, “What!?”

“Do not go through with the transformation. Stay as you are, stay with me, share my bed, let Asgard know you are back, and I will protect you from whatever scorn they speak.”

Heart skipping a beat Ikol’s eyes avert, studying the wavering of grass unable to bear the emotion within his eyes, wanting nothing more than to cling to the falsities of hope.

“I cannot.”

“Why!?” He roars.

“Do you not see Thor? What happened last night? I tried most avidly to hold back my mischief, but it is a part of me, a piece I cannot cut free. And it will turn me again into a beast; it is only a matter of time. I must disappear from this world forever.”

He grabs Ikol’s chin, hold branding like hot coals, his grip a cage, forcing his eyes to meet Thor’s.

“What do you mean?!”

“I have lied to him you see, he thinks he will turn me again into Ikol the bird, but I have taught him a different seiðr, he will make me vanish. I will be gone forever.”

The fingers around Ikol’s chin tighten willing to keep him in place, the chains of captivity.

“I will not let you leave.”

“You must, for he will still remain, all the good of me—my heart. I am merely vanishing the anger and hate—the terrible spite.”

Thor pulls Ikol against him, his chest hardness and strength failing to reassure for he has forced numbness.

“I will care for you, make sure nothing pains you.”

It was too late for that; the opportunities lost many years ago.

“What are we Thor? For if you do not answer, if my question is met with only nothing, then that is the truth of us—we are  _nothing_.”

Ikol hears the chorus of silence—the harshness of truths.

“Ah! You see now!  _Nothing!_  There was never a chance for me, for fate is a cruel mistress. But our young Loki, I have cut him from fate, allowed him the freedom I long craved,” Ikol slams fists against his chest, his nails digging into the steel of Thor’s bicep. Ikol’s voice sharp, desperate as a keen blade, “You care for him Thor. Give him the chances I never had, the hope I never had. All the promises you just made me, give to him. Let him mature, let him grow, and when he is a young man, love him, take care of him, and protect him.”

Thor’s lips meet Ikol’s one last time, the taste of regrets and sorrows, saccharine lies and stolen opportunities, and something for Ikol that never would be.

Thor pulls away and whispers, “This I promise.”

Ikol is lost.

…

Loki's eyes meet Ikol’s and he know at that moment, he has not fooled Loki for he is far too clever and always suspected the truth. Ikol’ eyes flash quickly to Thor, engraving his image in his mind—his memories. Ikol turns back to Loki and nods. He opens his mouth and speaks the song and chant of seiðr. Light shines blinding him, claws at his center tearing him apart. But Ikol is silent for he must be as pain rips away bits and pieces until nothing is left of him.

Ikol is gone in body yet he remains unwillingly on the wind, silent as a whisper, wishing only for freedom, and peace. Unseen and unheard, yet he sees all and hears all.

Loki sobs, small body shivering with the onslaught of tears, “I did not wish for this to happen.”

Thor pulls him to his chest, embracing rocking in comfort, lips upon his temple as he murmurs, “I know.”

…

Ikol watches as Loki grows, blossoming into a young man. He watches as Loki gazes at Thor, hoping.

Ikol waits.

…

Loki stands outside his room, long elegant fingers twirling nervously, twisting the long lengths of his plaited ebony hair. Fidgeting he tugs at his green tunic as he nervously awaits Thor's return. Eagerly he turns at the sound of loud footsteps.

“Thor!” Loki cries, relief a bright light spreading over his pale face.

A smile cracks Thor's tanned features littered with the cuts and bruises of battle.

“You are injured!” Loki gasps, fingers trailing the kinks and nicks of armor.

“Not as badly as I could have been, your strategy worked well.”

Black glove covered fingers skim his square jaw pressing at a large bruise the painful smudge painted purple and yellow across the canvas of tan flesh.

“I am fine,” Thor murmurs.

Ikol sees realization, a fire within Thor’s blue eyes as he takes in Loki a man of nineteen, pale and lithe, thin and graceful.

A flush blooms, the blossoming of a rose across Loki’s pale skin pinkening the tips of his pointed ears and nose.

They waver, stepping forward they move and at first it is silent—awkward but their lips meet for the first time. Their arms winding around each other's necks, their kiss becoming eager and frantic, passions long denied—love finally accepted.

Ikol’s vision blurs, until he can see them no longer. His hearing fails, until there is only murmurs and then nothing. Ikol fades, carried away. He vanishes, forever gone—forgotten.

Complete and finally free.

…

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while Journey into mystery was still running, so its old. But I'm fond of it so I wanted to give it a rewrite and repost it. I suppose its canon divergent now. Let me know you thought, comments are always appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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